


take me home (to babylon)

by DoctorGrimm



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Boxing, Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bridgerton Inspired, Class Differences, Everyone Needs A Hug, Idiots in Love, Idiots in lust, In this house we respect Sex Workers, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Sex Work, Smut, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, Whump, because i don't wanna deal with the reality of TBIs, boxer din, brat on brat action, fighting as flirting, gentleman luke, historical inaccuracies for the sake of narrative, moff gideon can suck my ass, prepare for every character to be put through the ringer, rich people deserve to get pickpocketed idc, unrealistic portrayal of boxing injuries, world's worst couples counselor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:28:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29855346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorGrimm/pseuds/DoctorGrimm
Summary: Din Djarin is a prizefighter known in London as The Mandalorian. He has a lot on his plate, including providing for his adopted six year-old son Grogu and paying off debts to corrupt magistrate Moff Gideon. Matters are only complicated when a wealthy gentleman catches his eye at boxing match.Regency era dinluke with lots of action!
Relationships: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda, Din Djarin & Kuiil, Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Leia Organa & Luke Skywalker & Han Solo
Comments: 51
Kudos: 107





	1. Just Can't Get Enough

“C’mon, old man. Wake up!”

Din dipped his head to the side and slipped Calican’s wide punch. 

“Asleep on the job, huh?” 

Calican pushed forward off his right foot, edging towards a left hook. The younger man bounced too much on the balls of his feet, expending needless energy. He would wear out, Din realized, if not from the footwork then from the shit-talking. 

When the left hook came, wide and predictable, Din blocked and replied with a sharp uppercut into Calican’s unprotected ribcage. His opponent paused long enough for Din to fit a sharp hit into the other side too. With the ground pushing up through his heels, he rose and brought a right-hook down into Calican’s left ear. 

He backed away and let Calican clean the blood from his teeth.

He kept his eyes trained on his opponent, not letting his senses refocus on the crowd. Calican’s gaze flicked over to his trainer, then to the stands behind him. Unsurprising. Boys like Toro Calican liked knowing if the crowd thought he would win. He fed off their cheers, their boos, their advice. As if any gentlemen in the Ton knew how to win a fight.

Din moved carefully to the side, beginning to circle the stage. After spitting some phlegm onto the floor, Calican’s attention returned to Din. He smirked. Perhaps the crowd was on his side tonight. It didn’t particularly matter either way.

Calican charged, peppering Din with weak hits. While they were all easy to parry, the onslaught pushed Din towards the edge of the ring. The audience was only a few feet away from the ropes, and their shouts threatened to reach him. He breathed, trying to silence the pulls for his attention, and considered how to extricate himself from the edge. Calican’s only strength was wanting to strike first. Fighters like him operated without strategy, just petulance. Din only had to wait for an opportunity. 

An opening showed itself. He ducked down to bob, weave, and escape to the left. As he moved, the crowd behind Calican became visible.

He made the mistake of looking.

Most men who watched prize-fights were loud, drunk, and angry. Half of them took their hats and jackets off in the heat of the fight or loosened their cravats. They stood and shouted and waved bottles and stained handkerchiefs in the air, their eyes red and wide with fury and violence. 

But one man stood still. He almost looked solemn. He had his head bowed just slightly, and blue eyes watched intently from under the black brim of his hat. Blond curls poked out from under it. While shorter than many of his compatriots, the man stood taller and straighter than all of them. His gaze seemed to grab onto Din’s as the fighter maneuvered down and around his opponent’s side. 

A sharp elbow landed on his spine. A blow to his kidneys followed.

Kuiil helped him off the floor and to the corner. 

“Perhaps if you focused.”

Din took the glass of salt water from the old man and swished some around his mouth. Where his teeth had cut into his gums, it burned. The salt water didn't burn as bad as brandy, but still. At least it distracted from the throbbing pain in his back.

_If you focused._

He wondered if he had imagined that man, if he was an illusion brought on by the blow Calican landed close to his head. Din could not have seen him for more than a split-second before he hit the ground, and yet his face seemed so clear. 

Those eyes. That tight frown. 

Din stood up for the next round. Kuiil added some advice, but he didn’t hear it. The sounds of the warehouse, the crowd, and the city had all faded away. Only Din, Calican, and the square they stood in remained. Calican grinned and wiped a sweaty hand on his chest. The round began. 

They circled each other for a moment before Calican faked a lunge. He laughed, as if it were a joke.

Din breathed. He let Calican shoot out a jab, then launched his own counter-offensive. He let rage course through his shoulder, down his arm, around his wrist, out his knuckles, and into his opponent's body. Din's feet and hands moved on their own accord, weaving a net around the other fighter. He continued landing blows until Calican was on the ground and then he backed off.

As Din turned to return to Kuiil’s corner, he glanced briefly at men surrounding the ring. This time, he did not find that pair of serious blue eyes looking back at him. Disappointment and anger rolled against each other in his stomach, a painful reminder to stay on task. To not look for beautiful men where there were none. 

The fight lasted two more rounds before Calican gave out, making it only six in total. Most of the gamblers thought he’d make it all eight. The early end added a handful of pounds to Din’s prize money. 

“Not bad today, Mando,” Greef Karga grinned, dropping a bag of coins onto Kuiil’s stool. 

“How much?”

“Oh, about six hundred.” 

“I thought it would be more.”

Greef laughed and turned to leave.

“I need better fights.”

Kuiil had been occupied with repacking his satchel of supplies and hand wraps, but Din could now feel him watching the conversation. 

“Or more of them.”

The bookie stopped. When he turned back around, his smile had been replaced with a sterner look. 

“I’m sorry Mando," He said. "But I have other guys in the Guild. I can’t just give you all the biggest matches. I’d be out of a job.”

Greef Karga was too old to prizefight anymore, but you could tell from his frame and his posture what a force he must have been as a young man. His reputation as one of London’s aging champions still deterred gamblers from giving him trouble. The same was true for the fighters he dealt with. You push Karga and you either get a black-eye or get blacklisted. 

Din nodded, resigned, and Kuiil returned to filling his bag. 

“I’ll be in touch, alright?” Greef gave Din a pat on the shoulder and took off to speak with some of the spectators who were waiting around.

“Is it enough?”

“For now.” Kuiil sat down next to him and motioned for Din’s hand. He examined the knuckles and the tears in the skin before pulling a bottle of liquor and a long white cloth out of his bag. The old man was not a fighter himself, but he didn’t need to be. He needed to be a good trainer, and that he was. 

Six hundred pounds would cover rent and food for the next few weeks, but that was it. Din needed another fight if he was going to cover this month’s payments to Gideon. A big fight at that. 

“You surprised me.” Kuiil tied the cloth tightly around Din’s palm, and Din gave him his other hand for bandaging. “I did not think men like Calican could upset you.”

“He didn’t.” Din gritted his teeth as his trainer cleaned the cuts on his knuckles with alcohol. “I just got distracted.” 

Distracted. Distracted by a man who was there and not there. By a man who didn’t belong in a place as foul as this and yet was the only one who really did. Distracted by a man who Din did not know, who he would never know. 

“Hmm.” They sat in silence. Dust hung in the air like smog. Inert.

“Go home to your child. Celebrate the win.” Kuiil stood up and offered Din the purse of winnings. “And don’t forget to wash up before I see you tomorrow. You smell like shit.”

Din followed Kuiil’s advice. He tried to push his worries over debts and Gideon to the morning. Having stopped by the street market first, he arrived at Peli’s repair shop with a satchel full of vegetables and a package of fresh beef. Neither his son nor the curly haired tinkerer were to be seen in the front, so he rang the bell on her desk.

The sound of something metal dropping on the floor preceded Grogu running out of the back to greet Din. 

“Hey kid.” Grogu sprang around the counter to hug him. “Careful,” Din muttered, wincing a little as a jolt of pain shot through his sore legs and back. 

Grogu pointed to the green carrot tops poking out of Din’s bag. 

“I’m cooking tonight.” His son cocked his head. “Tiingilar. You’ll like it.” 

Peli, who had followed Grogu out of the workshop, laughed. She assured Grogu with a pat on the head that she would make an extra bowl of soup for dinner in case Din’s cooking didn’t turn out. 

Luckily, they didn’t have to find out if she was joking or not. The tiingilar was easy enough that even Din could make it without burning the whole block down.

The dish’s spiciness did surprise Grogu (especially the part where his nose started running), but he quickly acclimated and ended up devouring at least three servings. He probably would have eaten more if the two of them hadn’t already finished the entire skillet of food. Grogu fell asleep not long after the feast, and as Din tucked him into his cot, the boy let out a spicy smelling burp. It made Din proud. Maybe Grogu was part-Mandalorian somewhere in his unknown family tree. 

In dark, sleepy moments like this, Din sometimes allowed himself to dream. First, he would dream of making a home for the two of them, a real home. Somewhere with a vegetable garden and big windows. Somewhere they were free. Then, he would dream of the man Grogu would become. Someone kinder and wiser than Din could ever be. 

Finally, if he really surrendered, Din would dream of love. The selfish kind of love. The kind that those stern blue eyes reminded him he wanted.


	2. Black Celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More is revealed about the Jedi, fake London (planets are now neighborhoods! ft. Tatooine), and the Skywalker family.

“Just to keep an eye on him. That’s all.”

Outside the tall windows of Skywalker House, dozens of people filled Coruscant Square. Ladies in every color walked in pairs down the sidewalk; their maids trailed behind with wicker baskets in their arms and plain bonnets covering their hair. Horses kicked up dust from the street's cobblestones as pulled large, glossy carriages through the square. 

A bit of haze from the city's factories had wafted into the neighborhood and now obscured the brightness of the blue March sky. 

Luke tapped the window sill and turned back to his sister. 

She looked tired. Beautiful, as always, but tired. Bags hung under her eyes. Beneath a layer of rouge, he could tell that her cheeks were grey and colorless. Still, if something beyond marital troubles kept her up at night, Leia kept it to herself. 

“Okay. I’ll go.” 

“Great.” She got to her feet, letting her skirt of gold-threaded muslin fall perfectly around her. Not a wrinkle in sight. Her small purse even matched the fabric of her dress. Trust his sister to look worthy of a spread in a fashion magazine even as her marriage fractured at the edges. “Thank you,” She added. “I mean it.”

Luke offered her his arm. “You know, I can always volunteer him to get in the ring. Getting knocked around might teach him a lesson.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” It was nice to hear her laugh. 

The match was being held in the Tatooine Quarter. On the outskirts of the city, the region bordered slums on one side and canals and roadways on the other. There used to be nice shops and townhouses here, but as the demand for English coal grew overseas, the neighborhood was sacrificed to make room for docks and shipping infrastructure. Tatooine was reduced to warehouses, cargo bays, and empty apartment buildings. 

In the shadows here, you could now find anything: prostitutes, exotic pets, prizefights. Spiraling brothers-in-law.

Luke found Han outside the Guild's warehouse. 

A whole posse surrounded him, hanging onto every word and joke. It was easy to like Han Solo, especially when you didn’t know him. The Skywalker siblings knew that better than anyone. Sitting on a crate, he played cards with a pitcher of beer in hand. 

“Skywalker!” Han lifted a hand to greet him. His face was flushed and his jacket’s buttons had started to come undone. His compatriots, most of them in ratty shirts and old shoes, didn’t seem to mind Han’s state of half-dress. “Get over here, kid!” 

Reluctantly, the entourage parted to allow Luke to join his brother-in-law at the makeshift table. Some of them shot him sour looks, and Luke tried not to wonder why.

“Surprised to see you slumming it in a –” Han paused to hiccup. “– joint like this. Finally decided to get off your high horse, huh? Kid used to call this kind of adventure _undignified._ ” He added this detail for his friends, and they all laughed. 

It was hurt to see Han like this. A stranger. 

“You know –” He picked up his beer and a little sloshed onto the ground. Luke realized he was already slurring his words. “This kid could take any of Karga’s guys. Really, any of em! Isn’t that right?” He gave Luke’s shin a light kick from his sitting position. “Kid’s a damn Jedi.”

A few nearby shouts captured everyone’s attention and saved Luke from having to elaborate further. The fight, Luke gathered, was starting soon. Han’s cards partner growled and started cleaning up while others began migrating into the warehouse. 

“You know, I have a good feeling about this,” Han grinned. 

Luke didn’t, but he dusted Han’s bootprint off his pants and followed his old friend in through the door. 

The air inside stank of sweat and liquor. At least a hundred men, all giddy to lose money on someone else’s life, crowded the ring. It could have been more. It was hard to tell. The men surrounded the small square like logs on a bonfire, each leaning forward against the one in front of them to get a better view. Han pulled Luke towards the front. He said he didn’t want Luke to miss the good stuff, and it was hard to tell if he was joking or not.

Greef Karga emerged ahead of his two fighters. Each was accompanied by a trainer, and it reminded Luke of his own old mentor. 

As the first man climbed into the ring, the crowd cheered his name, Toro Calican. He was short and neckless with a slim body. There was a sexual kind of arrogance about him, as if he relished in what being shirtless, sweaty, and muscular could get you in a crowd of liquored up aristocrats. His limbs, Luke noticed, were disproportionately short for his torso. 

A heavy-set bald man shoved forward, nearly bowling Luke over. Han waved the guy off and yelled some sort of apology to Luke over the shouts and cheers. 

He regretted coming here.

He regretted Leia and Han. Regretted loving them enough to come to this dark place where he’d have to watch the tenets of his training get shat on in real time. 

To the Jedis, fighting was not something to be made public. It was sacred, an artform to be studied and respected. It was not to be made into a spectacle, to be turned into some kind of circus where fighters stormed around like incensed bulls for drunk matadors. Even being here, adding another pair of eyes to the event, he felt tired and guilty.

The second fighter stepped over the ropes into the square. 

Luke’s mind halted. 

Everything halted.

The fighter was broad, with large shoulders and sculpted arms. He wasn’t skinny and boyish like Toro Calican. He looked like a man. His body was strong and impressive, yet almost plain, like he hadn't expected to be half-naked in front of a hundred onlookers until an hour ago. Luke couldn't see his face, but he hoped to.

He was precise with his warmup exercises, and no stretch or movement was without purpose. There was nothing aggrandizing about his posture, disarmingly so. Where Calican was all arrogance, this fighter was all humility. Invisibility. The Mandalorian, if Luke heard Greef Karga’s announcement correctly, clearly did not know that everyone was watching him. That Luke, against his better judgement, was watching him. 

Luke expected the fighters to dive right into a pub-style brawl, but they didn’t. They started the fight circling each other, feeling out the other fighter’s style. 

From the first beat, it was clear that Calican was an impatient, offensive fighter. He would launch a quick, weak attack, get rebuffed by the Mandalorian’s defenses, and then dance around and wait for an charge from his opponent that would never come. At first, he waited maybe thirty seconds before starting the cycle over again, but that time soon dropped to twenty seconds and then to fifteen. 

Luke wondered if the Mandalorian noticed Calican’s tic: before attacking, his left shoulder would pull back and fall to the outside. 

Calican was quickly losing his patience. Luke could hear it in his breath and his footsteps on the dusty ground. The Mandalorian, however, was stone sober. He barely moved, save when he was swatting off the other fighter. Calican spat out some insults. Spectators, including Han, piped up with their own. 

Calican’s left shoulder twitched. As if on cue, the Mandalorian erupted. In a flurry of clean, purposeful hits, he brought Calican to the ground. 

“Hey, hey,” Han elbowed Luke’s side. “Why are you smiling? Calican’s my guy tonight. Don't smile.” 

“I’m not. What, Han, I’m not smiling.”

His brother-in-law cursed and turned back to the ring.

As the fight continued into the second round, the Mandalorian stayed predominantly on defense. 

What Calican lacked in strategy, he made up for with unbridled confidence. Riled up from the last takedown, he was throwing faster, looser punches. By dumb luck, he landed a few in the pocket hits on the Mandalorian, hits that would leave bruises along the man’s ribs for days to come. Ultimately, the second round ended the same way the first one had with Mandalorian quietly delivering Calican on the floor. 

The Mandalorian in wait and the Mandalorian on attack were two different fighters. Two different people. The Mandalorian almost fought like a Jedi, but there was something in his attacks that was distinct and unrecognizable. Rage? Wildness? Luke could not decide what to call it, but it captivated him.

He still wanted to catch the fighter's face.

In the next round, he got his wish.

Toro Calican cornered the Mandalorian in a weak trap against the ropes. Not too hard a hold to get out of, which the Mandalorian seemed to know. Luke watched as he started to circle out to the side from Calican’s hold. The fighter executed the footwork with admirable precision, and Luke expected him to make a clean getaway.

But then, mid-step, the Mandalorian hesitated. Everything else paused with him. The shouting, the shaking floor, the jostling. Everything was still. 

Luke could finally see him. 

The man was frowned in concentration. Calican had split his bottom lip at the corner, and Luke could see the swelling beginning to form around the small cut. He had the sharp nose of a statue. His long hair, wet with sweat, was matted against his ears and forehead. His broad and structures face matched his strong body. 

The eyes. Luke could have wept.

The man had the saddest eyes Luke had ever seen. Beautiful, brown, and completely tragic.

The illusion suddenly broke. Everything that had stilled came back alive, and Luke watched as a dangerous blow to the spine crushed the Mandalorian to the floor. The crowd cheered. Han cheered. Somewhere, a bottle broke on the ground and someone else screamed in response. Calican, grinning, held up his arms in victory while the Mandalorian’s trainer helped the barely lucid fighter back to his corner.

Guilt climbed up his throat, hot and acidic. Breathing quickly became difficult.

“I’m gonna be sick.”

“Huh?”

“I need some air,” Luke repeated louder.

Han shrugged and pointed towards the door. 

Throughout the carriage ride from Tatooine to Coruscant Square, Han alternated between complaining about his nausea and complaining about the money he lost on the match. After some clingy hugs and multiple weary goodbyes, Luke delivered the drunk to his valet who promised to get him safely in bed. 

“It was strange, Leia.”

Cheerful music flowed into the room from the parlor as a dinner guest attended the piano forte. Something metal bounced to the floor, and Luke could hear both of his parents and their guests start laughing. 

Leia swirled her glass of wine. “Prizefighting isn’t what you’re used to, I know.”

“No, that’s not…” Luke glanced back out the window. As late as it was, the square was almost as full of people as it had been in the morning. He still felt unsteady, even hours after the boxing match. “I forget sometimes how lucky we got.”

She tilted her head to ask for elaboration, but he stayed quiet and took a sip of water. 

He hated that he could remember the Mandalorian’s face, even now. Despite the fighter’s win, Luke doubted he escaped tonight without an injury. It was a bloodsport, after all. Eventually, Luke knew, he would be hit and not get back up. 

“Oh, and I hate to ask, but… Han?”

“There was nothing going on that I could tell.” Han wasn't involved with any mistresses, loan sharks, or serious troublemakers anyways. “I think he’s just overwhelmed. And tired.”

Leia nodded and picked at the hem of her gloves. She didn’t look relieved. 

“This isn’t his world, you know? All of this.” She gestured to the ornate moulding, silver flower vase, and large family portrait nearby. “It’s harder than I thought it would be. Marriage, I mean.” 

He offered a sympathetic smile.

“When the time comes, don’t marry for love, Luke. Not if you can help it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tl;dr – marking Luke down as scared and horny
> 
> so glad you are all as excited about this story as i am <3
> 
> as a (very former) boxer, deciding the choreo of the fight scenes makes my heart sing! BUT, i know that most people probably aren't super familiar with the nitty gritty of boxing footwork, strategy, and terminology. is the action easy to follow, even to people who haven't been in a ring before? am i going too technical or not technical enough? let me know babes !


	3. Behind the Wheel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a smutty sneak peak, a side hustle, and a meet-ugly. 
> 
> cameos for the Blurrgs!

A wet kiss to his inner thigh. A hand holding down his chest. Another hand waited on the turn of his hip, the thumb pressing small circles into the skin. His legs were opened and relaxed, allowing someone to sit between them. 

The mouth made its way up his thigh to where the skin creased and became fattier abdomen. He breathed hard, his chest rising and falling with each exhalation. The mouth kissed the mound above his cock, then traveled back to the thigh. 

_You will break me._

His partner laughed, bright and airy. 

The next movements faded into the other. All he could remember was colors. Dark purple. Pale blue. Warmth, teetering on the edge of a deep cold. Untethered weightlessness. 

His hand sailing up a smooth back, over a shoulder blade, stopping at the start of a man’s neck. His mouth skimming the soft skin of the mid-back. With his other hand, fingers gripping the handle of the other man’s hips. 

The thrum of red and orange. Blindness, deafness, fury. Touching, ruining, transforming. Devouring, then fasting. Expanse and emptiness, then the warm light of the night sky. An embrace in cold sweat. 

Din woke up to an empty bed, a hard cock, and a chest wet with sweat. Outside, night-soil collectors banged on their pails as they finished their rounds.

He sat up slowly and, with a few deep breaths, tried to let the last glow of the dream fade. This same dream had haunted him every night for the past week, and yet each morning it felt just as novel to wake up from. The details never stayed long, but he didn’t need those to know who it was accompanying him in these nightly fantasies.

The man from the match. The quiet man with those blue eyes. 

It was odd to dream of someone he did not know. His mind filled in some blanks (where he was thin, where he was strong, the width of his wrists), but so much was left uncertain. He wanted to know if the man had birthmarks. If his fingers were crooked. 

Din had no right to these questions. And yet, the dreams kept tempting him. Distracting him. 

He had never been so glad to have a separate bedroom as he was this week.

The six of them sat in a lopsided circle with the Blurrg twins on crates, Kuiil on his trusty stool, Cara on the gym’s only real chair, and Din and Gorgu on the floor next to each other. Ayegee, Kuiil's nurse, had made soup which everyone but Kuiil himself accepted. It was entirely flavorless, but all four fighters knew to never turn down a meal. 

“And then the bugger gets up on the ropes and fucking _leaps_ onto my back.”

“Just jumps on there like a goddamn spider! Like this!” The other Blurrg twin mimed the attack with her hands stretched out like talons. 

“Bugger off, it’s my story.” He swatted at his sister. “Anyways, the little guy thinks he’s gonna get me in a chokehold or something, but no, I just duck down and toss the son-of-a-bitch onto the floor! Landed on his head like _krrrck_.”

The twins doubled down in laughter.

“Heard he’s out for the next few months. If not permanently,” Cara interrupted. 

The Blurrg brother just shrugged and went back to eating while his sister shot Cara a look. “Not our problem."

Grogu had put his soup aside to tie knots in the rope Kuiil had given him. He was attempting a daisy chain but had mixed up the direction of the knots a few times, and now the chain was a little lumpy. 

Din stretched out his hand and asked for the rope. Grogu, with a little sigh, handed it over. “You went upside down here.” Din pointed to the culprit junctures. “See, when you do it like this, it goes backwards.” He let Grogu watch as he tied a backwards link in the chain. “Try to keep this tail up and this tail down.” He pulled out the stitch and gave the rope back to Grogu.

Across the circle, Kuiil cleared his throat. “I spoke with Karga,” He said to Din. “Your next match is Bo-Kataan in four weeks.”

Din nodded slowly. Bo-Kataan never fought for a prize less than a thousand pounds. Going against Din, the pot could get up to two thousand.

“You don’t look pleased.”

He liked the way Kuiil spoke. Never in questions. Never ambiguously. He wondered if it was an Ugnaught thing to speak like that.

Din knew very little about Kuiil’s background besides that he was Ugnaught by blood and Ugnaught by mother tongue. However, he also knew that Kuiil made his career in the British military and now lived here in London, far away from the Ugnaught's homeland of Gentes. It was possible he grew up there during the English occupation, only to be tempted away by a chance at education and wealth in Europe. Maybe Kuiil grew up in England with Ugnaught parents. It was impossible to know. Din certainly had an untraditional immigration story, and it was easy to believe that Kuiil didn’t either. 

“I am. It’ll be a good fight.” 

Kuiil raised a bushy eyebrow.

“I just wish it wasn't a month away. I need –” He glanced down and made sure Grogu was still occupied with his knots. “– a job sooner than that.”

“You could always put him to work,” One of the Blurrg twins suggested, pointing at Grogu.

“Yeah, our aunt has four kids working the chimneys and she rakes in probably three hundred a week off those little bastards.”

“The kid," Din glared. "Is not working.” 

“I have a buddy who needs a deckhand,” Cara piped up. “Good money, and I know you don’t mind ships.” 

“Can’t be gone for that long.” Leaving Grogu for a few days, let alone a few weeks was out of the question. “Doesn’t matter how much they'll pay.” 

“If you change your mind,” She mumbled through a mouthful of soup and vegetable. “You know where to find me.”

“I was thinking of visiting Boba. He might let me pick up some work again.” He tried not to look at Kuiil, at whose order Din ended his bar-backing career some years ago. “He’ll probably want me for nights though, so it won’t work,” Din admitted. 

“Ayegee and I will watch the child when you work,” Kuiil spoke up. Even the Blurrg twins looked surprised at this. “She will like taking care of someone who is less grouchy than me. You will not worsen your injuries, though. And you will adhere to your training schedule.”

“I…” Din looked down at Grogu. “What do you think, kid?”

The boy handed him the finished daisy chain and smiled.

“Okay. It works.”

“I have spoken,” Kuiil nodded. 

The pub, crammed between larger apartment buildings, was short and squat. The exterior wood was blackened from lack of maintenance, and the thatched roof looked one good storm away from disintegrating. The second floor, which doubled as a brothel, used to have windows but those were now all boarded up. While better for privacy, it added to the impression that the bar was closed for business.

Jabba the Hutt, Boba’s predecessor, named the pub The Monastery as a play both on the sinful dealings that transpired inside and on the rumor that a real monastery had once really occupied this bit of real estate. The story seemed unlikely, considering the bar was situated on the border of the Tatooine and Nevarro neighborhoods, but no one bothered to dispute it. London was an old city; there was a chance that it was once a decent place.

Din came in the late afternoon, between the early rush and prime time. 

Fennec, a rag over her shoulder and hair tied back in a braid, was working the bar. Luckily for her, being a bartender at The Monastery didn’t demand a thorough hospitality skillset. You just needed to be tough.

Din weaved through the tables of men and women drinking and playing cards. Even at this hour, some hustlers were already working. The bar did have a rule on soliciting: you can conduct negotiations and foreplay in the pub, but all payable activities had to be taken upstairs (for a cool shilling paid to Boba) or outside. 

He slipped into an open seat at the bar. Fennec was occupied with handing off some pitchers of beer to waitresses, so looked around and waited. Very little about The Monastery had changed since last he worked here. The same splintering walls. The same wobbling stools. The same loudmouths and drunkards. The same helmet nailed to the wall above the entrance. 

“We already have bar wenches.” Fennec slapped an empty cup down in front of him. “So I’m assuming you’re here as a patron.”

He pushed the glass back towards her. “I’m here to talk to Boba.” 

“Too bad. Boss isn't here.” 

Din looked Fennec over. He always expected her to have tattoos. Every time he noticed that she didn’t, he was surprised all over again. 

“He downstairs?” 

She just shrugged and turned to attend to the other guests.

Din found his old boss in his basement office going over some printed statements. A small candle sat next to him at the desk, but the dim light just made the room feel even more dark and even more damp. It was odd to see Boba Fett looking so studious and domesticated. He looked soft around the face. 

“Clerical work suits you.”

If Boba was startled, he didn’t show it. Calmly, he set down his glasses and looked up to the doorway. “Something has to.” The older man gestured to the makeshift crate-chair in front of his desk. “What can I do for you, Din Djarin?” He asked as his guest sat down.

"I need a job.” 

“Don’t you have a job?” _Don't you have a job that you quit mine for?_ Boba had an odd ability to make Din feel very small. To make him feel conscious of his hands, his arms, his posture. Nervous was not quite the right word, but it was close. “You must be desperate if you’re coming back to me.”

He stayed silent. 

“Moff Gideon isn’t an easy man to owe. But you knew that.” He folded his hands and leaned back in his chair. “How far behind on your credit are you?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Din shrugged. One hundred, one thousand, one million pounds, what was the difference? Moff Gideon was not a man who compromised. If Din could not fulfill his end, Gideon would take what he thought he was owed.

“But it does. Bargaining for someone’s life… I’m sure you’re learning what a dangerous game it is.” Boba looked to the ceiling, lost for a moment. Something was dripping in the room. Every few seconds, a bit of water slammed loudly against the basement’s stone floor. How could something so small make a noise so harsh? “Three nights, fifty pounds a week.”

“Two nights and fifty pounds a week.”

“Three, take it or leave it.”

“Two and I’ll do cleanup.”

“Deal.” 

Din started work at pub that night.

Over the course of the evening, he removed seven patrons, carried fifteen barrels of water, broke up two fights, cleaned up three shattered glasses, refilled four kegs of ale, and only had to remind one woman turning tricks to take her client somewhere private. He didn’t keep track of how many times he almost threw out his back.

Sometimes, he examined the crowd. He wasn’t sure who he was looking for.

A little after three, he finished his shift. Instead of going back to the apartment, Din wound up on Kuiil’s front stoop. He fell asleep against the door, waiting for morning. 

“What about this one?” Din pointed to the constellation on the page. The authors had lassoed a shape around the constellation’s stars, and this page's outlined image resembled some kind of spiky jungle plant. “This one’s cool.”

Overnight childcare was proving easier than expected. Grogu liked Kuiil’s large house, and the two adults were surprisingly good at understanding Grogu’s needs, even better than Peli. Ayegee was even teaching Grogu math when she had time. For his part, Din indulged every night they did spend together. He cooked more often and tried teaching Grogu checkers. He even bought this used book of constellations that neither of them could read. 

Next to him, Grogu scrunched his nose and went to flip the page.

“No, no, buddy. We were gonna look at this last one and then go to bed.”

It was too late. The page was flipped. On this spread, the constellation looked like a misshapen warrior holding up a sword. Grogu giggled, and pointed at the oversized foot on the man. 

“Okay, I’ll tell you about this one, but then it’s really bedtime, alright?” Grogu grinned. Cheeky bastard. “This guy here, his name was…" Din thought for a moment, trying to piece together a story. Since he couldn’t decipher the actual descriptions at the bottom of each page, he had to make up his own myths for Grogu. Most of them were jerry rigged nursery rhymes, but for some reason, Din wanted to tell a better story tonight. A Mandalorian story. “Cassus the… Large Footed. He was a warrior. From the lost city of Mandalore.” 

“Cassus was around before the city was lost though. It was still just Mandalore.” He paused, trying to remember the Armorer’s words. Years of distance blurred and muddled the details together. “The city was a beautiful place. It had lots of gardens and pools. Everyone who lived there was happy and strong.” He checked to make sure Grogu was listening. 

“One day, a tribe of vicious warriors called Jedis came from the North and attacked the city. The Mandalorian warriors were powerful, but they were outnumbered and surrounded. Things looked pretty bad until Cassus the... Large Footed, he decided to use his big old foot as a weapon.” Din waved his own foot in the air and Grogu laughed. 

“He turned the tide and helped the Mandalorians win the war against the Jedis. Years later, when Cassus died, the king put him in the sky so he could look after Mandalore forever.”

Grogu reached out and laid his hand on the man on the page. Then, he looked back at Din, as if to compare the two.

“Okay, kiddo." Din closed the book. "Time for bed.”

“Hey!” He pointed to a guy leaning over, retching. “Outside!” 

The job was gross and thankless, but the wages bordered on charity. Besides, he liked working at the pub. He liked that it was mundane, that he was just part of the background. No name, no face, no reputation.

However, working somewhere adjacent to a brothel did no favors to his touch-starved psyche. Every caress, every kiss, he had to see reminded him of how long it had been since he had a man. 

If it weren’t for those dreams, he wouldn’t have cared. But he did. Oh, how he did.

He still dreamed of the solemn man every night. Dreamed of touching him. Fucking him. Loving him. A plague without a cure. Sometimes, Din even imagined his face among The Monastery’s patrons. Delirium ate him from within. 

A barrel in his arms, he passed by a pair of men wrapped up in each other. Din recognized one of them; he was a tall, sturdy fellow with an impressive beard. A Jawa, from the looks of it. He came by most nights for work, and while he wasn’t Din’s type, he always found plenty of buyers.

“You know the drill,” Din reminded the guy, who looked moments away from publicly sucking off his client. He heard a grunt, which he hoped was an acquiescence.

Din carried the water barrel to the back room and set it down in front of the storage racks. On the floor, next to a case of wine, sat another empty container waiting for a refill. Someone would make a fortune, he mused, if they figured out how to transport water directly where you needed it, no carrying required. Like aqueducts, but for your house.

Din reminded himself not to sit, as tempting as a break was, and threw the empty barrel over his shoulder. Until that day, he had work to do.

Out in the alley, the Jawa from earlier had his client against the wall and was working him over in his hands. Din tried to give the pair some privacy. Beyond enforcing Boba’s protocols, he had no interest in who fucked who, where, when, or how. He tried to put his head down and ignore the soft moans that came from their activities. 

He was a little past them when he heard a _thump_ , then a groan. The Jawa ran past with a nice blue coat under his arm. Without looking back, he turned the corner onto the street and kept running. 

Hunting down thieves who pickpocketed ignorant patrons and getting them to return the loot, Din decided, was the worst part of this job. Most of the customers who got stolen from usually deserved it, but Boba didn't tolerate onsite petty-crime. It hurt the bar’s reputation, he said, although Din wasn't sure what reputation that was. 

“I’ll go after him,” He growled, throwing the empty barrel on the ground. Out of curiosity, or maybe spite, he turned to get a look at the Jawa's swindled victim. 

Without a coat, without a hat, and with his pants half-unbuttoned, the man still tried to stand straight and look confident. 

“I'm coming with you.” He spoke firmly, but his voice was gentle.

The man's hair was disheveled and gold. His eyes, even in the darkness, shone with blue. Din wanted to laugh. After weeks of dreaming of it smiling, laughing, and wrapped around his cock, he could recognize that mouth anywhere. He almost believed he was dreaming but prayed he wasn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was this produced in wee hours of the morning between midterms? you bet! let's hope it makes sense (my poor brain is half mush right now) and gives you guys a bit of excitement! it's definitely a din-centric chapter with lots of erotic pining, side hustling, and worrying about Grogu. a lot of you were excited for Din and Luke to meet for realzies, so I hope this terribly awkward, sort of cliche cliffhanger meets your expectations! 
> 
> also, according to SW wiki, Jabba's Palace used to be a monastery belonging to the B'omarr Order! i was like ok, now i gotta fit this in somewhere. figuring out where to add in little cameos and semi-canon details is actually super fun, so lmk any characters, places, or trivia you'd want to see pop up somewhere along the way in this fic!

**Author's Note:**

> long time writer but first time fanfic writer here so let me know how i'm doing!


End file.
